The Rainy Poet

Subway 2004

Manhattan Bound

August days, muggy haze.

But I could not avoid the subway.

Crowds overwhelming.

Heat suffocating-

Bodies forced to touch.

He was standing across from me.

Our eyes locked as both of our hands reached

for that slimy silver pole.

Black fingernails. Black hair.

Black clothes. Hauntingly pale skin.

He reeked of smoke. And a bit of booze.

In that moment my greatest fear

was my hand touching his ugliness.

I pursed my lips and averted my eyes.

Holding onto that pole

Like i was holding on for my life.

Don’t slip!

—————————————————————————————————————————————-

Her blue eyes were empty. I knew her type.

WASPY preacher with so much money,

She had no choice but to turn to God.

Red finger nails. Blond Hair.

Black clothes, with that little white strip around her neck.

It must be choking her mind. That’s why her face is so pale.

I kept my eyes on the map just ahead of her.

Focused on my hand staying put.

Don’t slip!

The train braked- jolted- stopped.  

Manipulated by physics

Our bodies surged forward

Then snapped back.

In perfect sync,

Her hand slipped up;

Mine slipped down.

Defeat!

Our skin had been shared.

Millions of ugly germs swimming between

our meager hands.

We had shared.

We were shared.

Our eyes locked back together.

Defeat!

But neither had won.

We were at the mercy of the train.

Defeat!

And for that one moment.

Right before the 56th Street exit.

We knew each other. We knew.

We understood.

And we smiled.

I took and African-American studies course last semester that had a creative project component to it. The topic was Ugly Beauty. It took me a few weeks to focus in on a topic that covered an adjective that was so unwieldy. It was during those weeks that I studied the infamous Goetz trial in my History of American Law class. It was a profound event that marked the racism, violence and fear that had over-run New York City and its people during the 80’s and 90’s, much like the Central Park Jogger case. This trial, along with reading The Dutchman inspired me to write a series of poems that explore the “Ugly Beauty” present in the New York subway. These are poems inspired by true events I have witnessed or have heard about. It is an open ended project that I see as a work in progress. I will post when I have found a new narrative I would like to explore.

Enjoy!

I have read of the magic of wizard’s brooms

and witches stew.

Oh, how high I was

and how I flew.

Each word too real to not be true.

But down I fell, possessed by

the eerie romance of budding love.

Words of young girls and what was

to become.

The mystery of adolescence faded into

reality,

As I danced to Jazzy dreams

in Harlem.

and I felt my heart Beat as Ginsberg

Howled.

But Marx, Weber and the like,

Oh, how deeply they do strike.

My head dizzy, clouded with their

depressing theories of the tangible world.

A Brave New World no more,

but no way to close the door.

Oh, the stories I could tell; you could tell

Of melancholy Manhattan mornings

And of bloody Brooklyn busrides.

My dear remember, that’s how we first fell 

Into friends. Friends fell in. 

Into love. Fell into friends again. 

Oh, the stories we could tell of us,

You could tell of us; I could tell of us.

Dreadful discussions 

that only drove us deeper into the 

desert of depression. 

Empty sick laughter 

That rumbled and roared

And morphed into healing power. 

Oh, the beautifully pitiful talks we have had

That have left my stomach empty with a pit of nostalgia.

I miss you, twisted friend. Twisted friend, I miss you.

I miss you and I-intertwined- in mind.  

Please, again, be mine.

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
  They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
  And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
  By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
  And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
  It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
  And don't have any kids yourself.

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up 
like a raisin in the sun? 
Or fester like a sore— 
And then run? 
Does it stink like rotten meat? 
Or crust and sugar over— 
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags 
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

- Langston Hughes